


Consent

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: sherlockkink, Dubious Consent, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:35:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You gave him a choice, but you took away his ability to choose, set it up so the only thing he could possibly say was yes. That's not a choice. He didn't say yes. You said yes for him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consent

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for this kink meme prompt, condensed: _drugged Holmes, top!Mycroft, voyeur!Watson, everyone goes home hurting, be it from the crushing guilt or from more physical issues, make me feel bad for liking it. _  
> I thought I was done, and then everyone (including muses) screamed for aftermath ... which got completely out of hand. Um. Yeah.

He thought that after all these years, he would have put such emotions behind him. That the sight of his brother would not send opposing feelings tearing through him, send pity and jealousy tangling his mind, send shame gripping his heart, send desire curling low. He tries his best to shake them off, to ignore them, but he is the most observant man in the room and everything he sees only fuels these emotions. Bad enough that it his case, that such stupidity – though never on his part – has forced him to call in his younger brother. Bad enough that he can easily read the telling strains of everyday life in his brother's actions. Bad enough that he still, _still_ thinks of long fingers and sharp angles. But when he sees the way the good doctor watches Sherlock, sees the devotion so plain on his face, it is too much. Too much to see that once again Sherlock has gained spoils far beyond what he deserves. It is too easy to slip the contents of a small packet into his brother's next drink, because while Sherlock is suspicious of everyone, Mycroft is his brother, and the one hand – except, now, perhaps Watson shares that distinction – from which he will take anything.

His brother accepts the drink without a thought, never dreaming that his trust might be misplaced; Mycroft watches him drink and begins to feel sick, but the heat of anticipation remains. Though this may turn to mistake and ruin, it is too late to go back.

Sherlock wanders the room, speaking brightly of experiments and cases and deductions, and Watson is watching him, expression easy, relaxed. The jealousy and anger and want are choking Mycroft, and he listens to their familiar banter with increasing bitterness. Watson is drifting into that haze brought on by alcohol and warm, comfortable settings and long nights, and doesn't even notice when Sherlock stops talking, stops wandering and begins pacing, his eyes fixed on Mycroft. Watson doesn't notice, but Mycroft can hardly blame the man in his exhaustion for failing to notice the glaze in Sherlock's eyes, the flush in his cheeks. Sherlock's eyes shift from one man to the other, and Mycroft can deduce what he is thinking easily enough; here are two men he wants, neither of them within the boundaries of what is acceptable or right. One will give him nothing but propriety, but the other … the other he can trust, because it is his brother, and the only one with his best interests at heart. Mycroft wonders how he has gained such trust, when he has done nothing to earn it, when he is far from deserving of it. Very far, and drifting further.

Sherlock has stopped, is standing before him, watching him with lidded, hungry eyes, half terrified, half hopeful. Mycroft provides the opening; says, quietly, "Sherlock." Sherlock starts at the sound of his name, and raises one hand to brush fingers across Mycroft's cheek. He is trembling, his lips parted to speak, unable to articulate what he wants, but Mycroft understands. He has always understood his younger brother a little too well. He has always known that, if he managed it just right, offered it up just so, Sherlock would come to him. Or at least, he has always thought, but he has always preferred speculation to conformation, dodging the chance that he might be wrong.

He curls his hand around Sherlock's wrist and Sherlock falls against him, almost collapsing into Mycroft's lap, catching himself on the arms of the chair, his face nearly against Mycroft's, warm breaths tempting him, and he leans forward the last bare bit of space and kisses him. It is sweet and wet and wrong and what he's always wanted, and even if Sherlock wasn't his brother, wasn't another man, Sherlock's mind is under siege; Sherlock is so vulnerable at this moment that Mycroft cannot stop himself, cannot help damning himself.

Across the room, Watson finally takes notice of the terrible wrongness in the way things are progressing, draws a shocked breath at the kiss. "Holmes!" he cries, but neither of them pays him any mind, caught in the most unforgivable of sins. Sherlock draws back, flushed and dazed and panting, and Mycroft thinks this is what a debauched angel must look like.

Watson has risen to his feet, his face dark, has started across the room, and Mycroft turns his head, meets the doctor's eyes. "Stop," he says, and Watson halts, looking stunned, uncertain as to why his feet obeyed Mycroft's command.

"Holmes," the doctor says, uncertainly, and Sherlock turns to him slowly, so slowly; Mycroft sees the moment that Watson realizes there is something else at play here. "Holmes. Stop it. You are not your self. Let us leave now, and go home."

"Watson?" and Sherlock sounds as if Watson is the last person he expected to see. "Go home? Why? I, I cannot have what I want at home, with you." Mycroft can not think of anything more wounding Sherlock could have said, and as always, finds himself stunned at his brother's callousness. So, it seems, is Watson.

"I did not know," he says, low, and Sherlock speaks right over him as the doctor tries to draw him away.

"You will not give me anything but friendship, you will not give me anything but surgery, will not give any part of yourself into my keeping. You will not, cannot give me what I want. But … Mycroft will," turns his head from Watson to focus on Mycroft, a clear dismissal. You would not give a child a banquet made of poison, Mycroft thinks, no matter how they screamed for it, and does not see how he is any better.

"I would," Watson says, anguished. "I would. I didn't think … please. Come, let me try."

Sherlock regards him with distant eyes, and finally, he speaks. "But Mycroft will never hurt me. Eventually, you will leave me." Watson jerks back, as if Sherlock has struck him, and Mycroft knows that a blow would have caused less pain. It is wrong, but he has given up all sense of right and wrong long ago. He twists the knife lodged in the doctor's chest.

"Sherlock," he asks, and he thinks it is worse to ask at this moment, when he already knows the answer, than not ask at all. "Is this what you want?"

Sherlock turns back to him. "Yes?" he says, the tone not affirmative at all, but a question of his own, wanting to know if he has given the correct answer. Watson stiffens at the word, and Mycroft meets his eyes; sees the realization, sees Watson begin to understand how implicit Mycroft is in this temptation. Sees him acknowledge that now that Sherlock has said yes, it is no longer in his hands. If he drags Sherlock away, takes him home and gives him what he thinks he wants, Watson is no different than Mycroft; no better, no more noble, only a little less sordid.

"I won't be a part of this," Watson snarls, and turns, hat in hand, halfway to the door before Mycroft catches him.

"You're going to just leave him, then?" _Knowing that I am taking advantage of him, knowing that he doesn't know enough to know what he wants?_ "Well. I suppose you only care about him when it is convenient." Catches him, and reels him in, and pins him down.

Watson whirls around, face white, furious. "How dare you? You!"

"You would leave him," Mycroft says, gentle, reproving, and Watson sits stiffly, gripping the arms of his chair.

"I will not leave him."

"Then you must be quiet, or I will not permit you stay." The doctor trembles in rage at the command, but nods, once, sharply.

 

*

 

"Then you must be quiet, or I will not permit you stay." Mycroft's words are unforgiving, demanding, and Watson does not know if he is up to the task before him. Is almost certain he is not, but he cannot leave now. He cannot leave Holmes, not in the state he's in; eventually he will come out of it, and Watson will be there, to offer what he can, whatever the outcome.

"Sherlock," Mycroft says, and Holmes looks at him, barely able to focus, even further gone in the space of a few minutes. Mycroft takes one of Holmes' hands as it wanders aimlessly, and presses it to the buckle of his own belt. Holmes' lips part for a moment, and then he is down, off Mycroft, kneeling on the floor between his legs, his long form carelessly folded. His hands are making a hash of opening Mycroft's trousers, but Mycroft makes no move to assist him. Finally, Holmes has them opened, and pulls out Mycroft's cock with hands that shake visibly. He runs his fingers up the length of it, and Watson watches Mycroft's hands curl slowly round the arms of his chair.

"Sherlock," Mycroft says again, just the slightest shade reproachful, and Holmes looks up at him with a fond smile, a smile Watson has never seen. His own hands clench on the chair arms; Holmes leans forward and slides Mycroft into his mouth, and Watson cannot stop the small sound he makes. Holmes doesn't seem to notice, but Mycroft flicks a glance his way. Watson flushes, and tries to lift his eyes from Holmes wrapping his lips around Mycroft's cock like he's never wanted anything more, like worship personified; tries, and fails. He watches, the images searing into his mind, feeling his face flush with a mixture of embarrassment and want, and his stomach churns with a similar, sickening combination of revulsion and arousal. Holmes is nothing like his usual self, all elegance and composure lost, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks, sloppy and frantic, the wet sounds carrying easily to Watson. Mycroft tangles one hand in Holmes' hair, and Holmes moans, whines around his mouthful, pulls himself off and licks a wet path up the underside of Mycroft's cock, tongue pink and vivid against the dark purpled veins. Watson should be horrified, is horrified, but that doesn't stop the vision that comes to him, of Holmes on his knees before Watson, swollen lips closing around him, tongue swirling round the base of his cock, the tip bumping the back of Holmes' throat, feeling Holmes moan against the sensitive skin … Watson gasps, becomes aware that Mycroft is watching him through heavily lidded eyes, and he's smiling, the bastard.

"See something you want?" Mycroft asks, Holmes still pressing messy kisses along the length of Mycroft's cock, moaning, hips shifting where he kneels, and _yes, damnit_ Watson does, but it's not his to have, not either of theirs to have. Mycroft smiles thinly, and slides his hand from Holmes' hair down to cup his face, pulling Holmes off his cock. Holmes looks up with a dazed expression, and Mycroft asks him, "Do you like it that Watson is watching?"

"Who?" Holmes says, and Watson's world explodes in a white haze of anger.

"Stop it," he says, harsh, not missing the satisfied smile on Mycroft's face, and Holmes doesn't even turn to look.

"Hush," Mycroft reminds him. "Or I will have you leave." He runs a finger over Holmes' lips, and Holmes immediately sucks it in, watching Mycroft with eyes that are all pupil, all dark and too bright and all wrong, and Watson could weep at his expression, at the mindless want that is everything Sherlock Holmes is not. "Sherlock," Mycroft says. "You have too many clothes."

Holmes blinks at Mycroft for a second, blank, uncomprehending; Watson thinks it would never take Holmes this long to understand, and then Holmes' hands are fumbling at buttons, tearing at them when they are too difficult, and all too soon he has rid himself of garments. Watson has seen Sherlock naked before, but never like this, never flushed and sweat slicked and aroused, never subservient and needy and drugged, far beyond his treasured rational thought. Watson swallows, hard, and his own erection is pressing uncomfortably against his trousers; he won't touch it, not to the sight of this. Not to the sight of desecration, no matter how appealing it may become.

"Up," Mycroft commands, and Holmes is far from graceful as he scrambles to straddle Mycroft's lap, their cocks brushing together, drawing another needy, unfamiliar whine from Holmes, sending him pressing forward, rutting against Mycroft. "No," Mycroft tells him, and Holmes stops, dazed and panting, hands tightening on the chair arms as he tries not to move, fails to suppress only the slightest shift of hips.

"Doctor," and Watson realizes with a start that Mycroft is addressing him. He glances away from the arresting sight of Holmes and meets amused, knowing eyes. "I think we'll soon be in need of something …" Watson stares at him dumbly for a second, the realization of what Mycroft is asking dawning on him slowly, unwelcome, and he doesn't know whether to moan or cry at the thought of Mycroft fucking Holmes. His mouth is dry as he fumbles for his bag; Holmes had insisted he bring it along earlier today, and he'd been stuck lugging it about the rest of the day. Watson's hands find something useful, something safe, without any input from his brain, and he rises from his chair on unsteady legs, the shift of fabric across his erection blinding him for a moment. He makes the few steps from his chair to Mycroft and Holmes, his shaking hand depositing the small pot in Mycroft's palm. Holmes makes a breathy sound of pleasure, and Watson's eyes snap to him, unable to look away, and oh god, he wants Holmes so badly, wants to take Holmes from here and take him to bed, to touch him all over, burn off all traces of Mycroft...

His hand is reaching out before he has thought about it, but Mycroft's voice brings him back to reality. "Don't touch him." Watson's hand freezes; he pulls back with a curse, covers his face, running a hand through his hair in frustration. Watson still can't pull his eyes from Holmes, from the unearthly, unholy temptation of his skin, his pulse, his cock, until his mind is jarred by the touch of a hand on his face. His eyes turn then to Mycroft, who has cupped Watson's jaw with one large hand, his thumb resting on Watson's bottom lip. Watson makes a small, half choked sound of mingled want and fury, unable to check the way his head turns into Mycroft's hand, and Mycroft tells him, "Go back to your chair," pushes him away gently.

Watson turns, desperate to get away from them, get away from his own betrayal of Holmes – even now he cannot tell himself it was out of fear for Holmes' safety; he knows it to be because it is something he wants to see, and that sickens him. He returns to his chair willingly, only to be confronted with an appalling, appealing sight as he seats himself. Mycroft leans forward, says something indistinguishable into Holmes' ear, and offers him the pot. Holmes nods, his head snapping back and forth loosely; is quick to slick his fingers, coat them until they drip clear liquid, and reach behind, head falling back as Holmes breaches himself, long fingers well equipped for such a task. Holmes is the focus of both their eyes, watching as he slides fingers in and out, adding another, scissoring them slowly, opening himself up with wanton abandon, hips rising and pressing against his fingers; moaning and twisting like the best whore money could buy, like he has found a small taste of heaven in this hell, like he is putting on a show for their benefit, but Watson can tell he is barely aware of them, utterly lost in sensation.

"Enough," Mycroft finally says, and Holmes opens drugged eyes, fingers still working until Mycroft tugs at his hand, "Enough," and places it over his own hard flesh, Holmes coating his brother's cock with slickness. "Up," Mycroft tells Holmes again, and Watson notices through the devastating haze of his own arousal that Mycroft's voice is far from steady anymore. Holmes moves like he's caught in slow motion, rising from his settled crouch to hover over Mycroft's cock, sinking down onto it slowly, so slowly, Holmes' throat working as he swallows his moans; Watson is choking around his own sounds of need, listening to Mycroft breathing out a long shuddering breath as Holmes finally settles down all the way, resting against Mycroft's thighs, the entire length of Mycroft buried in him. Holmes' whole body is flushed, his panting breaths irregular, and it only takes one sharp rise and fall of his hips to bring Holmes to orgasm, his body tightening, letting lose a cry as he covers Mycroft's stomach with pale come. Holmes shudders through orgasm noisily and messily, falling forward limply against Mycroft, and the room is blurring around Watson; he closes his eyes, hoping to stave off his own completion.

Watson hears the broken breathing of Holmes, the quiet, stifled moans of Mycroft, and closing his eyes isn't enough to stop the images in his head. His eyes are closed, though, and so he misses the moment when Holmes comes back to himself, the moment some sanity returns to those eyes, pushing aside the drug haze for a heartbeat, a terrible, long heartbeat that is just enough for Holmes to realize where he is, what he is doing. Holmes' breath catches, and his hands come up, fluttering, sliding against Mycroft's chest in denial. "What," he gasps, "what …" Mycroft silences him with a kiss, silences him but does not still him. Holmes' hands still pluck helplessly at Mycroft's clothes; he still twists in Mycroft's hands, seeking escape, each movement sending shudders down his spine as Mycroft's cock shifts inside him. "No," Holmes whispers as Mycroft pulls away, whispers half in tears even as his hips rise, adding a yes to the conversation.

Mycroft regards him with tolerant amusement and something unforgiving. "A little late for regrets, dear brother," he tells Holmes, and Watson's eyes shoot open at that, just in time to see Mycroft hook his arms under Holmes' legs, see them slide from chair to floor, see Mycroft pin Holmes down as he twists and struggles, drawing Holmes' legs up, truly fucking him now, hard, brutal thrusts, overriding Holmes' protests with biting kisses; Watson is desperate not to touch himself, his hands tightening painfully on the arms of the chair, his legs stiff, every muscle tightening as he tries not to rut against the air, seeking release, seeking relief from the sight and sound and smell of sin piled upon sin. He can't see the tears staining Holmes' face, can't feel the weight of Mycroft pining Holmes down, forcing breath from his lungs, can't hear the whisper in Holmes' ear, the words that finally undo Holmes as he goes limp beneath Mycroft's assault; all Watson can register is Holmes gasping for breath, gasping like he's coming again, and that's all it takes, in the end, to send the room spinning, to cause Watson to come in his trousers, without even a touch. It's too much, too much, and he's only dimly aware of Mycroft fucking Holmes, pushing into him with force just shy of violence, uncaring of his brother's comfort until Mycroft comes himself. He groans as he fills Holmes with come, his body blotting out Holmes' pale limbs; takes barely a moment to recover before Mycroft pulls himself up, stands and buttons himself up.

It is only then that Watson can truly see Holmes, see what he has lost control to; the drug haze almost fully dissipated, Holmes looks broken, all pale limbs and wet eyes and utterly debauched on the floor, bruises rising on his skin, come leaking from his arse, and Watson quite suddenly and sharply finds he can hate himself. Watson is hardly in better shape himself, sprawled boneless in his chair, still mindless from the aftershocks of orgasm, his leg seizing up.

"You should leave," Mycroft tells them, and Watson gapes at the man for a moment before he forces himself to move. Mycroft has settled himself at his desk again, watching as Watson half rises, half falls, his leg protesting, paining him; but his heart is paining him more at the sight of Holmes. Watson tries to rouse him, but he's distant, barely responsive, and Watson feels a flutter of fear in his chest.

"Holmes," he says. "Come on, old cock. Let's get you dressed and out of here." Holmes doesn't respond; Watson struggles through getting Holmes' shirt back on before he admits defeat. They'll never make it back to Baker Street in this condition.

Mycroft speaks, apparently having drawn the same conclusion, his voice cold, passionless. "If you can manage him into a dressing gown and up a flight, you may use a club room for the remainder of the night."

Watson wants to spit in his face, wants to deny him anything more than what he has taken, what he has stolen by betraying Holmes' trust, but he hasn't the choice. He doesn't even know if they can manage that much. He doesn't scream, doesn't rail at the man for his callous abuse, for his twisting, tainting of Holmes. He can't lay all blame at Mycroft's feet when his own consent, silent but implied, has allowed this to happen. "What room?" he asks, dully.

They make it to the room, if just barely; Holmes utters not a single sound, nor meets Watson's gaze, but clings to him hopelessly, even as his body shudders and flinches away. Watson manages to get Holmes into a bath before they both pass out, curled round each other in the middle of the overly large bed, door locked and barricaded.

*

Below them, in a room still filled with the smell of sex and smoke, Mycroft drops the façade, drops his head into his hands as he sits at his desk, and wonders at himself. It is as though a drug haze has cleared from his own mind as well, and the taste of revulsion is strong on his tongue, overwhelming the traces left of Sherlock. He is unredeemable, as is the situation; even his formidable intellect can see no way out of the horrors his actions will bring.

*

Watson wakes first, the next morning, baffled by his surroundings. The only familiar thing is Holmes, sprawled over him, stealing his breath even as his huffs warm against Watson's shoulder. For a moment, he almost smiles, then is registers; against his _bare_ shoulder, and memory comes crashing back. He flinches, shudders as he remembers hands, remembers fevered eyes, remembers the greedy swallow of Holmes' throat, and, _dear god_, above all, remembers how he _watched_.

He feels sick, feels an urge towards violence, to strike out at something; he needs to unleash his rage at something harmless, because if he sees Mycroft this morning, he will not be able to control his actions. He wants out of the bed, but Holmes is curled tightly against him, and the things that will be waiting for Holmes when he wakes … Watson closes his eyes, a terrible dread chilling his skin. He doesn't want to deal with the repercussions of last night, doesn't know how he can even begin to deal with it; so he will pray Holmes remain asleep, will allow him to put it off for as long as he can.

Which turns out not to be long at all. Watson has been breathing quietly, slowly, hoping to keep Holmes away from consciousness, but it doesn't work. Holmes shifts, sighs, and Watson can feel the faintest of touches as he blinks, eyelashes catching on Watson's skin. Holmes remains curiously boneless as his mind wakes, always a few seconds behind his body, and then he tenses. Rises up on his elbows, leaning over Watson, too close for his peace of mind. "Watson?" Holmes says, tone ever so slightly troubled, still with an edge of rasp to it. "What, ah – wait, where are we?" gazing around the room, then answering himself before Watson can find words. "Ah, Mycroft's club. But that doesn't explain …" and he seems to suddenly register that neither one of them is wearing a thing. His expression shifts.

Holmes blinks again, opens his mouth and says … nothing. A curious look of confusion crosses his features, an expression that Watson is sure he will never see again, but he is preoccupied by dread, heavy and poisonous in his belly. Any second now, memory will hit Holmes as hard as it has hit Watson. Any second now.

"I confess," Holmes says slowly, "there seems to be a – lack of remembrance as to why exactly we are here. Er. In this situation." He turns his head, tilts it like he is some ungangly bird, and Watson can recognize the creeping hysteria in his own mind. He shuts it away, quickly, before it can overwhelm reason. If he keeps himself together, they might come through this without completely shattering. _He doesn't remember_, and Watson doesn't know quite whether to laugh or cry.

"You don't remember," he says, trying to squash the hope that's risen in his chest. Holmes shakes his head, winces at the movement; Watson's sure he must have a monstrous headache, but Watson repeats himself. "You don't _remember_."

"Ah," Holmes says. "What should I be remembering?"

Watson closes his eyes. What he wants to do is go limp, let loose the breath he has been holding since Holmes woke; he feels giddy with relief. He doesn't; Holmes will read even this slight silence as something Watson doesn't want to pass on, and any of those reactions would provoke pointed questions. He opens his eyes.

Indeed, Holmes is staring down at him with a certain curiosity in his gaze, but if he doesn't remember – be it a side effect of that _awfu_l drug, or a coping mechanism, or simply Holmes being stubbornly obtuse, although he doubts even Holmes could hide a reaction at the events of last evening – he's not going to question, merely accept the gift fate has brought him.

"Nothing much," he says. "You've been working too hard, and you know it. You left the conversation last night rather precipitously and unplanned, and Mycroft insisted that you stay the night, rather than burdening me with the job of getting you back to Baker Street." He thinks it's a rather neat alibi he's come up with, and begs Holmes to accept it.

Holmes doesn't, quite; he says nothing to discount it, but his eyes are still puzzling out facts; he'll never stop poking at it, Watson realizes. He remembers again the start of it all, that shocking, horrible kiss, and shudders once more. Holmes' gaze sharpens.

Holmes starts to draw away, as though he is suddenly become aware of how close they are, near to sharing each other's breath. _You will not give me anything but friendship_. Watson gasps, startled at the decision he has made, without even knowing he had made it; his hand rises, catches the back of Holmes' head and pulls him back down. Holmes makes a sound, but Watson isn't about to waste the second chance he's been given. Holmes' mouth is still tender from the night before, and he gasps into Watson's mouth, gasps and then breaths Watson's name like it's the only thing he can remember.

Watson pulls back slightly, just enough to speak, and he will go no further than that unless Holmes asks him too. "Holmes," he says. "I have very nearly made a terrible mistake; I may be making another one right now, but I do not think so. Am I correct?" and oh, god, let Holmes give in, let Holmes take what is being offered with hasty hands.

Holmes stares at him, shocked, but never speechless. "Astute observation," he says, and his voice is only a little shaky. "Watson …"

Watson doesn't let him speak more. He fits his mouth to Holmes' once more, his hand sliding down from the fine hair, his thumb brushing the knob of Holmes' neck. Holmes is kissing him back, wantonly, as beautifully and needy as he was kissing Mycroft, but his body stiffens ever so slightly, and Watson thinks that somewhere, buried and unacknowledged, Holmes remembers what happened last night.

He lets his head fall to the pillow, and Holmes follows after, pressing kisses to the corner of Watson's mouth. He speaks around Holmes' lips, into his mouth. "Holmes. Not here. I refuse to do this in your brother's club."

Holmes stops kissing him, tilts his head back. "Oh. I hadn't thought of it quite like that," but he does not move away. He hesitates, and then, without meeting Watson's eyes, "Can you blame me for fearing that I might not have another chance? That whatever has persuaded you to this course of action will lose its hold by the time we reach Baker Street?"

Watson could cry at the cocktail of fear and smothered hope and pain in Holmes' tone, but merely presses his fingers to Holmes' mouth. "It will not fade," he says, trying his best to give each word weight, make it an unbreakable promise. "I swear to you, I will not back away again."

Holmes looks slightly taken aback at the vehemence of his words, but pleased all the same, even if some doubts are certain to still lurk in his mind; Watson is sure they will continue to lurk until they reach Baker Street, until he pulls Holmes in on the steps for another kiss, until he locks the door and makes Holmes wholly his again, wipes away every last tainted fingerprint of Mycroft's, burns away the lingering remnant of his touches.

"Get dressed," he tells Holmes. "The sooner you are ready, the sooner we can leave," and unspoken, but not unheard, _the sooner we can be touching each other again_. Holmes is hasty and careless dressing, though he pauses for several moments and his legs almost give out entirely when he first stands, causing him to catch hold of Watson until he steadies. Watson realizes he must be feeling the effects of last night's debauchery, the unusually placed soreness, the bruises blooming vividly, and Watson spares a moment to be grateful he coaxed Holmes into a tub last night. He watches Holmes consider, watches him eye Watson, watches him fit the pieces together into something that is not true, no matter how much he wishes it was. He does wish it, and he lets himself color at the thought, knowing it will only add confirmation to Holmes' speculations; knowing and being grateful. He would rather Holmes believe he cannot remember being fucked by John Watson than have him remember being fucked by his brother. Remember begging for it. Remember Watson watching.

Holmes smiles suddenly, and finishes dressing. He links arms with Watson as they walk from the room, and says, low, "I am beginning to regret that I do not remember last night." Somehow, Watson keeps himself from stiffening, from stopping dead in the hallway, but while he smiles and allows himself to blush again, his thoughts are busy cursing Mycroft.

There is a cab waiting for them downstairs, and Watson almost refuses it, unable to bear the thought of accepting _anything_ from Mycroft again. But Holmes is already settling inside, quietly laughing at his brother's showing off by predicting their actions. "I'll have to thank him," he says, shooting Watson a wickedly amused glance, and Watson barely keeps himself from snapping out _no, you will_ not. He smiles, tightly, knowing that it's nothing like a smile at all, and Holmes glances away, studiously avoids looking at him for the rest of the carriage ride. Watson barely notices, lost in taming his rage, throttling the urge to return to the club and go after Mycroft, make him bleed and burn and beg for forgiveness. It is a tense ride.

They reach Baker Street, and Holmes is out and brushing by Mrs. Hudson before Watson can offer an arm. Watson rushes past as quickly, chasing Holmes, giving Mrs. Hudson only the most cursory of reassurances. He doesn't know what thought Holmes has gotten into his head during their ride that would cause him to rush away, but he's sure it isn't one he'd be pleased with.

He catches him at the landing, about to open the sitting room door. Holmes' back is tense, his head down, and Watson doesn't even think before he reaches out, spins Holmes around and pulls him close. Holmes flinches at the kiss, and for half a moment Watson has a terrible feeling that somehow Holmes has remembered during the ride, that he is repulsed and once more broken, and about to do something stupid; but then Holmes presses even closer, brings his hands up to slide under Watson's coat, makes a needy, desperate sound that is half a sob. "I thought," he whispers, and Watson's eyes fly open.

"I told you," he says, incredulously, but this is Holmes he is talking to, and Holmes trusts no one. "I promised." Holmes is shaking, and Watson runs a hand down Holmes' side, curling it around his hip, uncertain if he is attempting to soothe or arouse.

They stumble through the door to the bedroom, and Watson retains his mind long enough to close the door behind them; to search out the key and lock it, while Holmes stays attached to him, reluctant or even unable to make himself let go.

Holmes is fumbling at Watson's clothes, at his own, and Watson catches his hands, stills them. "Just the waistcoat," he tells him, and lays Holmes hands against it. Holmes takes the hint, slows his frantic hands and makes the removal of each article reverent, a mirror for Watson's treatment of him. By the time there is nothing more than bare skin between them, Holmes has calmed enough to become teasing as he pushes Watson onto the bed. He slides down Watson's body, pauses with his face pressed to the curls at Watson's crotch, and Watson's breath stills at the parallel; it please him to think that the only taste Holmes will remember is Watson's. Holmes touches him, everywhere but where he desperately wants him to, laughs up at him, and maybe Watson shouldn't have given him the chance to be so cocky. All speculation is lost the moment Holmes relents, closes his mouth around Watson and circles the head of his cock with his tongue.

Watson cries something wordless, incoherent, and forces his head to fall forward instead of back, unable to take his eyes off Holmes. His hands drift down to that dark hair, and his tangles his fingers in it carefully, trembling at suppressing the urge to hold him still, to fuck Holmes' open mouth until he can hear Holmes gasping for breath, feel him choking and gagging around Watson's cock, watch come oozing from the corners of his mouth, sliding down his chin. He pushes away the images of his fantasies, concentrates instead on the image before him of Holmes choosing to suck him, wanting to please him. It is better than any fantasy.

Holmes is glorious before him, even damaged as he is, but still Watson can see the marks Mycroft has left, tangible and invisible; he cannot stand the thought of any trace of Mycroft remaining. Maybe he doesn't deserve Holmes; he knows he doesn't, but Mycroft deserved Holmes even less. He's been given his chance, and he will seize it, he will take what is offered to him; Holmes is _his_ now. The only scent he will ever bear will be Watson's, the only touch he will ever learn again is Watson's, the only person to see him thus and hear him like such and know him in this way will be Watson, and he will burn out the memories of anyone before him.

He links hands with Holmes, draws those long fingers away from their perusal of his body, tugs him back up, and Holmes follows, masking Watson's body with his own. "Do you want," Holmes asks, pressed against Watson, and Watson can only gasp out pleas of _yes_ and _more_. Holmes takes those pleas as the compliments they are. "What shall I…" and Watson is nodding towards his bag before Holmes can finish. Holmes retrieves the bag, digs for a moment that is far too long for Watson to stand without touching Holmes, and returns with something clear and liquid. He raises an eyebrow, and Watson nods, impatiently. Holmes coats his fingers, settles on his knees as he reaches behind, and Watson is reminded of another night. He finds that Holmes is no less exquisite or shameless in giving himself over to sensation when fully in control of himself; he is, perhaps, even more so. His mouth dries at the sight, and if Holmes doesn't hurry up he's going to come before he even gets inside Holmes.

Holmes slides onto him in tiny increments, wickedly teasing, and there is no comparison to be had between this Holmes and the one of last night. Only Holmes in his right mind would be able to be so patient in teasing Watson out, in denying his own pleasure for even a moment when faced with such overwhelming want. Watson is careful not to move, to leave his hands resting lightly on Holmes' hips, neither pressing nor pulling, nothing to influence him, though his body is screaming for more. It is in Holmes' hands now, it is his choice, and Watson will be sure that his is given a choice this time. Holmes sinks down the final inches, his hands spread wide and taut on Watson's chest, his body equally highly strung, vibrating like a plucked string, his mouth open, breath panting through lips, his head tilted back enough to make that throat infinitely inviting, but still Watson does not move. Holmes is breathtaking; Watson could almost pity Mycroft, for having seen this sight once and knowing he will never have it again.

Holmes bows forward, half falls forward, to find Watson's mouth. Their lips meet, but neither is giving their full attention to the kiss when the rest of their bodies are crying out. "It is a pity I cannot remember last night," Holmes says, and Watson fights a revealing tightening of his hands, "but at least I gain another first experience of you," and Holmes' hands slide off Watson's chest to the bed; his hips shift, and Watson gasps. Holmes shudders at the sound, and moves again, and again, and again, and he has made his choice, and he was able to make a choice this time, and Watson never had to ask him. For a moment, Holmes' body tenses; his expression turns confused, as though he is hearing something at the edge of sound. Watson remains still, un-constraining, and Holmes' body softens and moves again, whatever remnant of memory once more buried.

Holmes rides him, lovely and moaning in pleasure despite the fact that it must hurt, so soon after something as brutal as last night, and however appealing the sight of Holmes was last night, this is even more so. Holmes is making sounds that have no edge of pain or drug haze to them, and Watson tears his mind away from memories, wraps a hand around Holmes' cock. Holmes is so near that it only takes a few strokes to bring him off, his eyes widening and fastening to Watson's as he comes. The feeling of Holmes' body clenching around him combined with sight on Holmes gasping, flushing and sweat sheened above him brings him so close his vision swims alarmingly. Holmes falls forward limply, and he kisses Watson as Watson comes, the final movement of Holmes leaning forward pushing him beyond the edge.

Holmes is limp against him, eyelashes and breaths kissing Watson's skin, he can feel his cock softening and slipping out with a certain sense of loss; but now he knows Holmes as Mycroft knew him, and will know more of him, and more often, and better, then Mycroft could ever have hoped. Holmes murmurs, "John," and Watson feels a small thrill at the sound of his Christian name from Holmes' lips.

"Hush" he says, presses a kiss to Holmes' temple, spreads his hands on Holmes' back. "Rest. I'm not going anywhere." Holmes settles in his arms, and Watson thinks all traces of Mycroft are gone, burned away and replaced with Watson's mark.

There is one thing he has left to do.

*

The telegram is waiting for him when he rises two days after … two days later, and for a ridiculous moment, Mycroft considers disappearing. It's tempting, possible, but he's certain it wouldn't actually work. Watson is far more determined then he appears; he has no doubt that the man would not rest until he found Mycroft. He sighs and awaits the inevitable with dread. This will not go well.

He is waiting when Watson arrives, the telegram still resting on his desk. He opens his mouth, and he knows the words are coming out all wrong even as he says them. "To what do I owe the pleasure –"

"Be _silent_," and Mycroft almost flinches away from the venom on Watson's tone. Watson visibly takes a firm grip on his temper. He has come here to say his piece; that is all. Mycroft can tell he is fighting the temptation of violence, and remains very still. John Watson, he realizes, is not capable of being a very dangerous man; for all his quiet manners and obvious wounds, he _is_ a very dangerous man.

"That night," Watson says, and holds up a hand when Mycroft opens his mouth. "_Be silent_," he says again, even sharper. "That night," he repeats. "I do not know what prompted your actions, despicable as they were; I do not want to know. There is no possible redeemable reason." Watson's lip curls, but he startles Mycroft all the same, with his next words. "I am not above reproach; lord knows, I was no help to Holmes. I am as bad as you in some ways."

He has to say it, knowing it is a lie as he speaks. "I asked him. He had a choice."

Watson snarls at him, vicious, _furious_. "_No_. You gave him illusion. You gave him a choice, but you took away his ability to choose, set it up so the only thing he could possibly say was yes. That's not a choice. He didn't say yes. You said yes for him. If I had my way – if I had my way, Holmes would never see you again, would never hear your name, would not even remember that he has a brother. I would wipe you from existence if I could." Mycroft closes his eyes. Watson would never believe it, but he feels much the same.

Watson sighs. "But I cannot. And, heaven help us all, Holmes loves you. Even if I make violently clear my disgust for you, it will not stop him from wishing to visit you; it will only distress him. I cannot stop him from being in your presence, but this will not happen again." Mycroft remains silent, unable to find words for something he never expected; a measure of – not forgiveness, but perhaps, compassion. Or maybe it is merely pity, but he will take even that.

"You are blessed," Watson says quietly. "You are blessed, and doubly blessed, that he does not recall what happened." Mycroft's head snaps up at that, shock blotting out his thoughts. Sherlock does not remember? He does not remember? _How?_ "That he has suffered no lasting harm from this is nothing short of miraculous. I fear – I know that eventually, he will put together the facts properly, will tease out the truth; he can be very vexing that way. I do not know what will happen then, or how to prepare for it; only willful ignorance on Holmes' part can keep things as they are now."

"We have both been given a second chance. I have made good on mine, and I warn you; Holmes belongs with me now. If you touch him…" Watson stops himself, his tone having gone tight, harsh. Mycroft watches him take a deep breath, force his rage down. Watson's control is astonishing, far better than his. "Do not make the same mistake twice. I do not know what you wanted, what you were trying to prove with this, but I will not tolerate another attempt. Be very careful. If you _ever_ touch him again, or even look at him with intent, I will not be held accountable for my actions." Watson gives him a look, and there is something behind those mild eyes, something brutal and vicious and possessive. "He is _mine_," he snarls, and even Mycroft flinches away from it.

"I– " Mycroft begins, and Watson stands, cutting him off. Mycroft closes his eyes, spreads his hands wide before him, as if in offering. "Please," he says. "I am not trying to explain myself; there is no explaining myself. I wish to simply offer my assurances. It will not happen again. It should never have happened in the first place. I am," he takes a breath, unable to find words to express himself properly. "I am appalled at myself. No, that is not strong enough. I am … " He fumbles, and Watson fills in for him.

"Vile? Disgusting? Wretched? Utterly without any moral core?"

He closes his eyes. "Yes," he whispers. "All of those."

"Well." Watson says, quieter, tamer. "You are not alone."

Mycroft cannot look at him, cannot accept the offering Watson is giving him. "I have found something within myself I wish did not exist," _and I cannot wish it away, god, I cannot even bring myself to truly want it gone_, "and there is, there is," his words falter to a stop, and he spreads his hands helplessly. Watson is watching him closely, and he is finding it disturbingly easy to be frightened of this man.

"I love my brother," he says finally, simply. Watson draws a sharp breath, and Mycroft rushes on. "I love Sherlock. I love him as my brother, and as a person, and, and, in ways that cannot, should not be expressed. I did not mean to, I do not wish to, but it remains. He is not an easy man to love, but still, I do. Can you not understand that?"

Watson stiffens, his hand clenching on the handle of his cane until the knuckles stand out, white, stark, and Mycroft knows he is once more fighting the urge to strike. "I can understand that," he says, low, harshly. "How can I not? But you have never had the opportunity to love him as I do; that path is not open to you. And I will make certain it remains closed." He pauses. "Would you do any differently?"

And that's the catch. If Sherlock was his, if he could have him as he wants him, he would not let him go. Would not suffer another to touch him. Would have already plotted and put into action the cruelest downfall he could create for anyone who had dared to take Sherlock as he had, and in that he differs from Watson. His impulse control is not nearly as strong as the good doctor's.

"You must swear," Watson is saying, "swear that you will never consider such actions again. I will not believe you, but giving your word, however false I believe it, is better than nothing. Perhaps you will find some sense of honor within yourself and let it bind you to your word. If you will not, I will ensure Holmes never see you again, and be damned to the consequences." Mycroft can feel the steel beneath his words, can feel the heat of his passion. Watson means every word, and while he may not plot Mycroft's elaborate downfall, he is capable of provoking a great deal of pain nonetheless.

"Yes," he says, mouth dry. "I swear. Nothing like this will ever happen again." He cannot say he will never consider such things; it is not possible. His mind will always spread before him the possibilities of Sherlock, of having him for his own, of the paths he could take to such a future. He cannot promise he will never think such things, but he can promise – and he will promise, and hold to it – that he will never act on his thoughts.

Watson stares at him for a moment, a long tense moment of measuring; measuring and finding wanting, and Mycroft can see the man war has turned him into. It has broken him, to be sure, but it has tempered him as well. Finally, he nods, once, shortly, accepting what he can take, and turns. Limps away without another glance.

Mycroft remains at his desk for the rest of the evening, thoughts running round his head, thoughts of Sherlock, terrible, wonderful memories twisted up with shame and despair and a desperate want he cannot completely quash. That he cannot want to quash as firmly as he should.

*

It is a long time before he dares offer an invitation, and it is longer still before one is accepted. The meeting is awkward, Watson watching his every move like a well trained, barely leashed hound, ready to snarl if the boundaries are even ever so slightly broached, Sherlock trying to be his usual self a little too hard. It is painful, and difficult, and should impress on him what a poor idea this was. But it is enough to have Sherlock near; to have him close enough to touch, even if he dare not. To have him eager for praise, eager for words of affection, ready with smiles and whiplash wit. He has given his word; nothing will happen. But that does not mean he has stopped wanting it.


End file.
